I had better learn to live with it. Apparently I can no longer administer to this blog. The dashboard has changed into some elementary model that the folks over at the forum can’t explain. What they have suggested is that I clear the cookies from my browser and see if that is what is causing the problem. I am hesitant to do this since I may have some cookies that are too valuable to lose. On the other hand, life is about choices right.

I know if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand whatevers. Sunday is the day, man. I don’t know where the rest of you are but I’m in sunny Cali and it was perfect for cruising on my bike down by the beach. The waves had great form and this morning it was glass to the max. My favorite coffee stop, the Pannikin, home made scones, the LA Times, talk with my partner, and then back on my bike. Seagulls cry, the white volleyballs fly, and I lean back and cruise ‘cuz it’s Sunday, man.

Space . . .
Robert Ardrey posed the question for the ages
When he offered up his treatise on rats in cages.
As space recedes, said he, the pace of life leaves us no
Time to breathe, crowds in, forces us to cross against
The yellow to red light, doesn’t wait nor hesitate.
The breath of fresh air becomes the fetid exhale.
Heat, the result of speed,
Expands each encounter’s
Press
Sure as a cave in cuts off
Light
Turns day into night, begins the claustrophobic’s fright.
Crushed against each other, each instant seems longer and so the
Press
Sure grows – We move – Race against
The red light or even more (maddeningly)
Cruise through it at the end of the line obdurately refusing to look left or right.
You know this truth even as you sit in denial waiting for the last car to hurtle
Past and the cars behind you begin their honking cry
All ready to race to where the next lights lie.

And even each recognition of this act of speed compressing,
Instead of giving us peace,
Becomes another form of the press
Sure to push us even faster.
Ever closer to the edge that’s despair. Consumed, subsumed . . .
Our terror turning ist.
And meanwhile, there it is blinking, the cursor light winking,
With it’s only eye – telling us
That it’s Pentium (Trademarked) process can take us there,
Race us there out into inner space,
Our gameboys palmpiloted.
Our implanted synapses
Imploding at Warp 8.
Which seems great, until
We realize like the Star Trekkers we so wish we were,
“Beam me up Scotty”
That that is the speed at which our universe begins to disintegrate,
Begins to un relate.
And only Super (the person that is) can reverse our fate,
Can retract the boarding gate,
Can reinvent the late great time when we all had a little SPACE . . .

I mentioned that I needed to reread Saul Alinsky’s Requiem but of course by the next day I realized that I was just wish-fulfilling. The title of his book is actually Rules for Radicals, published in 1971 a year before his death. I was just serving up a requiem of sorts when I Freudian slipped my own thoughts about what has been lost since the day when we actually used his techniques for social change. Like I said, it was late at night. The time where things slow down and I begin to wonder how the world g0t here from where we were?